


dear forgiveness

by phcbosz



Series: laughter, not poison [2]
Category: La casa de papel | Money Heist (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Berlin is alive, Communication, Established Relationship, Fluff, Hugs, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Past Abuse, Trans Martín Berrote, also super ooc, make that a tag!!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-25
Updated: 2020-07-25
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:00:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25515400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phcbosz/pseuds/phcbosz
Summary: The whole house is quiet, the hour too late for anyone to be awake, too early for the birds to chirp.orthe first heist, after everything.
Relationships: Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa/Palermo | Martín Berrote
Series: laughter, not poison [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1848520
Comments: 7
Kudos: 65





	dear forgiveness

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fscotts](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fscotts/gifts).



> yall this is so fucking ooc they actually talk and try to solve their problems and hug and shit like wbk im a clown
> 
> also this is for aleks only anyone else is NOT allowed to enjoy this :) /j

The whole house is quiet, the hour too late for anyone to be awake, too early for the birds to chirp.

Martín can hear Andrés breathing, slow and steady in sleep. The man is soft in his arms, Martín's own wrapped around him like a koala, like he wants to swallow Andrés whole, make a whole inside of himself and force the man there, so that they can never be apart again.

Andrés usually smells like expensive cologne, but when they are in bed like this, with Martín right behind him, head buried in his hair, he just smells like home.

Martín can't sleep. He's been counting days, everyone has, and tomorrow, they will leave this place that Martín has come to know as home, the comfort of their space, the familiarity of the living room where they played board games, the kitchen where Martín stumbled around, eyes lazy with sleep, in a desperate search for coffee, the bedroom him and Andrés started sharing, have been sharing for a while, the bed they lay on right that moment, the warmth of Andrés pressed against his chest--

Martín doesn't get nervous a lot. He is nervous now.

It's funny, how he came here with nothing to lose and everything to gain, but now, so much has changed, and nothing seems worth it, to the possibility of losing Andrés, because he might lose Andrés, _he might_ , it's something that he can never forget--

He keeps telling himself he won't let Andrés die. It's an empty promise, of course, a lie he keeps repeating to himself. If Andrés doesn't die in the Mint -which he won't, _he won't,_ Martín won't let him- then he will only live for maybe a few months, then die, maybe in Martíns arms, just like this.

There is no cure. There will never be a cure. Martín will lose Andrés, he will lose Andrés forever, this time. It's written, it's their faith, and there's nothing he can do to change it.

Andrés is in his arms, alive, well, solid under Martín's fingertips, but he won't be for long. Martín has been counting days, everyone has, but not quite like him.

*

It goes smooth, going inside.

It's once the doors close that Martín finally allows himself to take a breath--only he can't. His lungs feel like they are filled with dirt, and he feels like maybe someone shoved him so far deep in the ocean that he is at the bottom, tasting the salt, filling his mouth with water and sand, choking on it.

He is inside the Royal Mint, for a plan he didn't design himself, never got to love and dream about at night, a plan he never got to know for real, a plan he didn't tell Andrés about, bouncing on the spot from excitement, a plan Andrés never told him about, late at night, his voice low and silky, laid down on the couch with his eyes filled with stars, looking at Martín like together they can do anything, looking at Martín like he is _everything--_

The doors close, and he realizes he is trapped. There is no getting out. No going back, only forward, he has to see the plan through, or he will die inside The Mint.

Martín is used to being trapped. His mom was not one to get physically abusive for reasons. When she had too much of him -and she had too much of him a lot, but Martín never blamed her for that, never will- she would lock him inside the cupboard cabinet they had right under the stairs.

Martín doesn't remember when she started doing it, he just remembers spending hours in that small space for as long as he has known himself.

He remembers passing time by counting to a hundred, over and over again. He remembers trying to sleep but it was impossible in a place so small that his own breaths made the air heavier, hotter, hard to breathe in. He remembers dreaming of his mom opening the door to hug him -and she did, god, she did, every time, with a different excuse but the same apologies- and caressing his hair. He remembers screaming at the top of his lungs at her to let him out, he remembers crying until he got sick, he remembers scratching at his arms until they bled, knocking his head on the walls, pulling out his hair, just to convince himself he is still alive, he is still there, he hasn't disappeared, his mom won't forget him inside--

Martín is used to being trapped.

He is also used to not being able to breathe.

So, he just straightens his shoulders, juts his chin out, when he walks again, away from the door, he makes sure to strut even more.

*

They fuck up. Of course they do. Martín knew Tokyo and Rio were going to end up being trouble, he knew--

He is so angry that he sees red, forgets to breathe for a second, yelling them curses with breath he doesn't even have, until he realizes what he is doing really.

When he looks around, everyone's looking at him with different sets of expressions. He looks at Andrés, of course he does, because he's the only one who matters in the end.

Andrés' eyes tell him everything he needs to hear. His shoulders relax, and he takes a deep breath, the air feeling lighter all of a sudden.

He can fix this. They can fix this. Together, they can do everything.

Andrés finds him in one of the offices, taking a pill to help with the headache that's steadily growing, pounding on his temple with the rhythm of his heartbeat.

They don't speak for a while. Until, "it's so different when you're actually inside here," Andrés says.

"Of course it is," Martín replies cheekily, like he wasn't surprised himself too.

It's weird. All that planning, all that dreaming--Martín could have prepared this heist for his whole life, yet nothing would prepare him for actually being inside there, with the police outside, a few injured by their hands, the hostages inside getting restless, scared, Martín himself feeling faint with all the power he has all of a sudden, all the lives he holds in the palm of his hand, and Andrés' hands are shaking, tiny tremors that will keep growing until Andrés won't even be able to hold a glass of water--

Martín is still counting days, he's counting _hours--_

"Relax, mi amor," Andrés says, so much closer now, like they gravitated towards each other without noticing. "Everything will be alright."

And Martín finds his home inside the Mint against Berlin's lips.

*

Of course, everything is not all right. That's to be expected, but after the first mistake, Martín learns not to be so angry, realizing that when mistakes happen, which they will, nobody needs him to yell and scream, they need a leader, and Martín is perfect for it, standing by Andrés' side, commanding people around like he was born for it, and maybe he was.

It feels like it, when he is beside Andrés like that. He was born to stand by Andrés, to stand by his side no matter what.

When Andrés orders Denver to kill the hostage, Martín doesn't disagree.

He knows how Sergio thinks killing hostages will fuck up the plan, but he simply doesn't agree, because by the time people find out, they will be halfway across the world anyway, so why does it even matter?

Still, he feels a little bit of guilt tugging at his heartstrings, when he sees Denver looking so trapped, and Martín can see his own expression in the younger guys face, the expression he knows he had all those times his mom pushed him inside a cabinet and locked the door, walked away without even looking back--

This is not his plan anyway. Martín could never love it as much as he loved their plan, his and Andrés', and he knows better than to try to change Andrés' mind, challenge him in front of a hostage and Denver.

He keeps his mouth shut, and well, when Berlin asks him what's wrong, if Martín says nothing, and it feels a lot like a lie, well that doesn't mean anything, really.

It's just that she was pregnant. Not far along, but if she kept the baby, she would be a mother one day, and now she will never push his kid on the swings, she will never hear them say watch mommy, _watch me do a kickflip!_ She will never get to see her child, hold them, love them, she will never do anything ever again--

It's just collateral damage. It feels more than that. Martín tries not to think about it.

*

Rio goes and acts stupid, gets exposed for it. Anibal Cortez. Through him, they find Tokyo.

Martín tells himself he doesn't care, but things get a little more intense when Berlin, not Andrés, because that man is not Andrés, makes Helsinki and Oslo beat the kid up until he is black and blue.

"What the fuck were you thinking?" Martín screams, his throat already sore from the abuse it has suffered through in so little time.

"He needed to be punished," Andrés says through gritted teeth, looking dangerous, dark, like a hole filled with water, so deep that you can never see the bottom, and Martín is dangling on the edge.

"He's one of our own--We don't beat one of our own, Andrés, _la concha de tu madre!_ " They are getting closer, but it doesn't feel like it always has now, it feels aggressive, ugly, and Martín hates it.

"I'm starting to think you might need a reminder of where you belong too," Andrés says, and Martín feels like the man has hit him, a pain so sudden in his chest that he can't breathe for a second.

When he finally registers the words, his lips stretch into an ugly smile, lopsided and cruel. Andrés doesn't look like he regrets what he said, but Martín can see it in his eyes, the beginning of guilt, pain--

Andrés has hurt Martín, so Martín decides to hurt him back. "What?" He says, taking a step forward, aggressive, ugly, wrong, _wrong,_ everything about this feels wrong, the air, their voices, the way they stand, so close, yet miles between them. "Going to make Helsinki and Oslo beat me up too?"

Andrés clenches his jaws, looks away, looks back, like he wants to avoid Martín's gaze but can't swallow his pride for a second to allow himself that.

Martín takes another step forward. "Why don't you do it yourself, huh?" He asks, chuckling. "Be a proper man," another step, and he is close enough to touch now, but he isn't gentle when he does, he pushes Andrés, makes the man stumble, and he doesn't know how to describe it but the air feels red. "Hit me yourself!"

"Martín," Andrés says, a warning, but Martín has never been good at listening, not with his mom, not with the guy he dated in college, Miguel, who got too angry too fast, and certainly not with Andrés.

He pushes Andrés again. "Are you a coward?" He asks, can't stop the laughter that bubbles out of him as he remembers the last time he asked that to Andrés, so close just like this. "Huh? Are you a coward?"

He reaches forward to push Andrés again, but the man grabs his wrists, tight, but not enough to hurt, and Andrés pulls Martín closer until they are chest to chest.

"Stop it," Andrés says, looking down at Martín.

Martín doesn't stop, of course. He can't. He has never learned how, in the face of danger, of getting hurt, of pain, he always pushes forward, until he gets it, as fast and as intense as possible so he isn't caught by surprise later.

"Or what? You'll make me?"

"Martín," Andrés says again, and that's just his name, but it's the way Andrés says it, like it hurts to force it out of his mouth, like there is a Martín sized lump in his throat, "stop it. _Please._ "

The air clears, slow but steady, and when everything stops being so red, and Martín can finally breathe again, he sees the tears in Andrés' eyes, and realizes he is shaking from head to toe. Martín realizes he is scared. The realization hits him like a slap, and he almost flinches, tries to pull away from Andrés' touch, but the man holds on, tightens his hands like he is holding on for dear life.

"Let me go," Martín says, his voice thicker now, and trembling just like himself.

"I shouldn't have said that," Andrés says, and Martín scoffs, looks away, can't look at Andrés.

"Yeah, no shit," he replies, because it's easier.

"I'm sorry, Martín," Andrés says, voice cutting through everything like a knife, sharp and fast.

Martín inhales. Andrés has only apologized to him a handful of times. Andrés only apologizes when he actually means it. Martín sags in the man's grip, leans forward a little bit, and it only takes a little bit of pull from Andrés until Martín collapses against his chest, burying his head in the red of his overalls, inhaling, long and deep.

Andrés smells like home, he always smells like home to Martín.

"It won't happen again," Andrés says, and Martín knows he means it.

"Okay," he replies, but it feels too empty, too lacking something… "We're… we're okay."

"We will be, when we get out of here," Andrés' hand is caressing his hair, gently, loving.

"You can't just push me away or--or use me as a punching bag when you're angry, or treat me, treat me like I'm no different from then--because I'm not Andrés," Martín says, he has to say it.

"I know, mi amor," and Andrés tries to pull him closer like it's possible, "You're not one of them, you could never be just one of them to me."

"Good," Martín replies.

"I love you," Andrés says, soft and quiet, but it's loud enough for Martín. it's enough for Martín. It always is.

"I know," he replies, and if his voice is thick with tears, well, they both just ignore it.

*

They say vile things about them both. They accuse Andrés of being a rapist, a pimp who rapes little girls… Martín is his right-hand man, trafficking little boys.

"Little boys and girls, huh?" Nairobi asks, chuckling, but there is a dangerous look in her eyes, a look that says she won't hesitate to kill them both.

"Shut the fuck up, bitch," Martín shouts at her, and she lunges forward to him, but Andrés reaches out, grabs her neck and slams her to the table before Martín can even blink.

"Fuck!" Martín yells, surprised, but Nairobi doesn't waste a second, starts struggling against Andrés, hitting him, again and again, until Martín jumps into action.

He throws himself forwards, hits Andrés and makes the man stumble away, and before Andrés can even react, he pushes the man again, almost making him fall down.

Nairobi jumps up from the table, coughing and gasping, wheezing for a breath. Berlin is still staring at her with murder in his eyes.

"Andrés!" Martín yells, trying to break through the haze. "It's a fucking lie. We can prove it's a lie," he says, hoping Andrés will snap out of it but Andrés simply turns to stare at him, with that look in his eyes, and his nose is bleeding, tainting his teeth red when he smirks, lopsided.

"They ruined my fucking reputation," Andrés hisses, "yours too. Imagine our dear friends seeing that. That we are rapists, pedophiles, snitches--"

"Anyone who actually knows us will know that's not true," he says, maybe a little bitterly, aware of Nairobi still standing in the room. "The rest doesn't matter anyway."

It doesn't help. Andrés still seems angry, furious.

The thing about their anger is, Martín's is loud, but Andrés' is silent, like the quiet before a storm, but the storm is already there, ripping your house to pieces and destroying your pretty little garden full of your colorful flowers, killing your dog under a pile of rubble.

"I've never been in that car," Andrés says, quiet and calm. Then he turns to Martín, a strange look in his eyes. "Neither have you."

"What are you saying, Andrés?" Martín asks, already running through the complex theories Andrés might be having inside his mind.

"But Denver has," Andrés says simply, "wearing my jacket."

And with that, he turns, and storms out of the room, a man with a mission. "Shit," Martín says, following close behind.

Nairobi jumps into action quickly too, understanding what's about to happen.

"Andrés, stop and think about this for a second," he says, trying to match Andrés' pace but Andrés is taller, has longer legs, takes bigger steps, all but running, his hand already on his belt, close to his gun, ready to reach and shoot any minute.

It takes them a while to find Denver, but by the time they do, Martín has run out of words to say, a rare occurrence for him, and Andrés is still burning with rage.

First, it's the button. Then, it's Monica Gaztambide, alive and well.

Martín tries not to let it show on his face, but in a way, he is glad to see her alive, know that she doesn't have her and a baby's murder staining his hands.

Andrés doesn't seem as pleased.

Sure, Martín is also angry about the disobedience, but surely this is a better turn of events for them?

Soon enough, guns are drawn, like a Tarantino movie, as Nairobi says. It's all fine, until Andrés opens the door, points the gun at Monica.

It makes it harder, knowing her name. Martín imagines her father whispering that name to her ear after she has been born, Monica, Monica, Monica, he imagines her mother screaming her name in fear when she runs to the street, he imagines her name being announced at graduation, he imagines all those things happening for Monica's kid, with Monica by their side--

He doesn't know why he does it, but he steps in front of Monica, the gun pointing at him then.

Maybe he wouldn't do it if he didn't know for sure that Andrés won't shoot him. Maybe he would have. He doesn't know. It's a strange thing to care about a complete stranger, to 'risk his life' for them. Martín has never really felt this way before. Well, except--

Except for that one time a fight broke inside the restaurant, Martín getting his ass handed to him because he tried to defend a poor kid getting bullied by a bunch of customers.

The kid was obviously gay, his colors showing through the way he dressed, the way he walked, the way he spoke, and those guys picked up on it, of course they did.

He was barely an adult himself back then. All lanky limbs with no muscle, but a fire inside his chest, always ready for a fight.

He dislocated a finger and chipped a tooth, not to mention the bruises, but he got the bullies to stop, he got the kid to stop crying after a while too, the kid who couldn't have been more than 16, a complete stranger to him--

He shakes his head to clear it, returning to the moment, Andrés' eyes staring so deep into him, a gun pressed against his chest, a gun Andrés is holding, the love of his life.

"Move, Martín," Andrés says, and for a second Martín almost shivers, hearing his name in Andrés' mouth. It's been a while. And it's a warning.

"No," he refuses, jutting his chin out, presses even closer to the gun, not looking away from Andrés for even a second. "You're just going to have to shoot me."

Andrés' hand is shaking, then, so little that only Martín notices, because he knows how to look for it.

The gun stays pressed against him for maybe a second, before Berlin lowers it, fast, putting it in its holster again, and everyone in the room takes a deep breath.

Martín smirks to himself. He knew Andrés would never shoot him, and it feels good to know that, to know that Andrés would never be able to shoot him, to believe Andrés when the man says _I love you,_ to be able to believe it.

Andrés storms out of the room, then, not looking back.

Martín rolls his eyes at the man's tendency to be so dramatic. "You're fucking welcome," he says to Denver, nodding at Monica, a small movement, but one that she appreciates, judging by her small, hesitant smile.

With that, he leaves too, going after Andes.

*

Andrés is in the room where it all started, the TV open again, and Martín steps in the room, silent, but Andrés can tell it's him, because his shoulders stay relaxed, not stiff like they are when the team is around.

Martín knows Andrés' steps by heart, and Andrés knows his.

On the TV is a picture of Martín, and he looks so small. He forgot he used to look like that, and he doesn't recognize himself, his too soft face, feminine eyes, not one hair on his cheeks, a picture from before he started T, from one of his first ever crimes, robbing a liquor shop because what else are you supposed to do when you're a homeless teenager?

They are talking about it, about him being trans, another picture of him, this time with Andrés, and he is smiling. His face has filled in, more masculine, and he even has a beard at that point. His chipped tooth is proudly on display. Andrés beside him is supporting a mustache, something they used to laugh about a lot, looking at old pictures.

Martín doesn't feel like laughing now.

They are talking about the possibility of Andrés and him having a relationship, talking about all the heists they've done over the ten years, but also talking about all of Andrés' marriages.

Martín feels a little like he is watching a reality show, but it's about himself. His face flashes on the screen again, it seems this part is dedicated to him. Now, it says by his name, gay pedophile rapist.

Martín feels a lot like he is going to be sick.

He never imagined it would happen like this, coming out to the whole world. He never thought he would come out to the whole world in the first place.

He swallows, and feels an angry lump in his throat, surprised to find it there.

But how dare they? How dare they taint his name like that, then dig into his past, so far that Martín is surprised they haven't used some pictures of him from when he looked a proper girl, and he is also sure they will, once they find the pictures from old high school friends sending them in.

How dare they? He imagines everyone he has ever known watching the TV, he thinks about his extended family, scandalized, ashamed to be related to him for multiple reasons. He thinks about Miguel, thinking to himself, _I'm glad I beat that faggot black and blue,_ the rapist deserved it.

He thinks about his mother, about her seeing this, and he's a little bit relieved she is dead, maybe, even though it's a horrifying thought.

How dare they? How dare they take that choice away from him? Tell the whole world his secret past, his dirty secret, how dare they let the world know what's inside his pants, what scars lay on his chest, behind his button up shirt--

Martín swallows again, the lump bigger this time, and they are both silent, just watching the TV in silence, and Martín takes every blow, every strike, standing straight.

The fight he got into at school, his mother kicking him out, all the visits to the hospital from when he dated Miguel, his mother not allowing him to attend her funeral, all his heists with Andrés--

They talk about it all, and at the very end, they've even managed to find a picture of him, long haired and smiling at the camera, a good little girl.

The picture is black and white, and Martín likes it like that, like she died, and she did, she's dead, Martín killed her, and seeing her on the screen punches a hole through his chest, makes it even harder to breathe, because Martín still hasn't forgiven himself for all the other people he could have been, all the other versions of himself he has killed.

A picture of them together, then, Martín, a little younger, two years after they met if he is correct, and Andrés has his hand around Martín's waist, pulling him in, and even through the picture Martín can tell he is flustered, blushing, hands awkward by his side, not knowing if he should touch Andrés, but the smile on his face is big and bright.

Then the camera pans dramatically, shoving a woman by Andrés' side, looking up at him with heart eyes, and they are closer than Andrés and Martín are standing.

Martín can't help the laughter that forces itself out of him, hollow and sharp, cutting through the air like a knife cutting through skin. That's not even one of Andrés' wives, just a random woman he had a fling with, and the picture is so perfect that it looks like Andrés has both his arm candies by his side, as possessive as he pleases--

And isn't that the truth anyway? Martín lived a long-life being Andrés' side chick that wasn't quite his side chick.

RAPIST LOVERS, the title reads, white on red.

Suddenly the TV is off, and Martín looks at Andrés, all but snarling. "I was enjoying that," he says, but Andrés doesn't listen, just walks forward, reaches out, grabs Martín by the back of his neck and pulls him into a tight hug, so tight that Martín feels like he might disappear into it, and in that moment, he quite wants too as well.

They stay like that, for a while, until Martín calms down, until they both stop shaking.

Nobody dies that day. It kind of feels like a piece of Martín did.

*

The Inspector is supposed to come in, and Martín is filled to the brim with nervous energy, hands shaking and eyes wide.

He needs this to be perfect, he needs something to be perfect for once, because everything has been shit so far--

But of course, it doesn't go that way. The lamb is lost, and Andrés keeps flirting with The Inspector, and Martín has a headache--

It's just a mess, everything's a mess, and Martín should be used to it by now, he should be used to it, he has seen Andrés get married more than once, he has made coffee to his wife, celebrated a heist with them both, he should be used to seeing Andrés with someone else but the difference is--

Well, the difference is, Andrés was never his back then. Martín always laid awake at night, filled with guilt for being possessive of something, someone that wasn't even his, Martín couldn't look Andrés in the eyes sometimes, because he knew he wanted to get lost in them, disappear forever, but he knew he didn't have the right.

Now, Andrés is his, and there Andrés is anyway, his sweet mouth and his clever tongue working The Inspector.

She doesn't seem too impressed, but Martín doesn't care about that. He only cares about Andrés, Andrés who has his arm thrown over the back of her chair, and when they look at each other to speak, their faces are so much closer than they have business being.

Martín tries to keep his emotions in check, he doesn't want to give The Inspector any more ammo, because at this point, he thinks the police only thinks it was a clever lie, calling them the rapist boyfriends, and he doesn't want to prove her wrong, and--

He doesn't want someone else to have a piece of their relationship. A complete stranger. It feels like a lot of people have already seen Martín's body dig into deep, everything inside, his heart, his mind, his soul, put onto the TV for anyone to just watch, and he feels like he has lost a lot of himself already, and he doesn't want to give her a piece too.

It doesn't work out, though. He can't help it. The Inspector can tell something is wrong by the way he keeps fidgeting, hovering around them like a nervous helicopter, and his lips are red and swollen from him biting into them to keep his mouth shut.

Still, it doesn't work out. "La concha de tu madre," he says, after Andrés makes a particularly dirty comment, and both heads in the room turn to him in surprise. "Do you even know how to shut your fucking mouth for once?"

He hadn't meant to say that, but the words force themselves out of his mouth, out of his throat, and he feels the vibrations, hears his own voice in his ears, but it sounds foreign to him, because he really hadn't meant to say that--

There's a dark look in Andrés' eyes but the man smirks all the same, turning to The Inspector, leaning even closer, and then, "don't mind him, he always gets a little possessive."

It's the way he says it, that makes Martín snap really. Like Martín is a bad dog that peed on the carpet, like a child throwing a tantrum for attention, not worth your while, and definitely getting punished for it later.

Martín chuckles, feeling bitterness flow through him. "Can't blame me for being possessive of what’s mine, can you," he says through a smirk that feels like melted plastic on his lips, and then turning to The Inspector, "we are the rapist lovers, after all, aren't we? I love the list of crimes you came up with, by the way, big fan! Trafficking kids, raping women left and right, truly one of your best works."

It's easy to direct his anger to her, even though it's Andrés he is angry at, and The Inspector is standing straighter, aware of how defenseless she really is, with every step Martín takes forward. Andrés just looks amused, but the darkness in his eyes says something else.

"Now, now, Palermo," Berlin holds up a hand, "no need to be so mean, look, you’re making her uncomfortable!"

Martín draws out his gun in one single movement, and The Inspector jumps to her feet, jutting her chin out. Berlin is still sitting down.

He is aware Tokyo and Rio drawing their guns too, but he is too busy, too focused on The Inspector and Berlin to care about anything else.

"Drop the gun, Palermo," Berlin says, orders, and that makes Martín even angrier.

"Why shouldn't I just shoot her instead? For ruining our reputation. Huh?" He hisses, and at this point, control is a faraway dream, "it was you, wasn't it, hija de puta, who ordered our names to be dragged through the mud like that?"

"Yes," she replies simply, has the nerve--

Berlin stands up too, then, and stands between Martín and her, and it just makes Martín angrier, he is seeing red, but when Berlin reaches forward to the gun, helps Martín lower it slowly, what is he supposed to do, shoot Andrés?

The room is so heavy with tension that it's hard to breathe. "Now, Martín, I'm sure she is sorry for what she did," Berlin tuts, turning to look at her, and reaches forward, catching a stray piece of her, and she almost flinches away before holding herself still, stiff, looking at Andrés with murder in her eyes as he caresses her cheek. "Would you like to say you're sorry to Martín, so that he doesn't doubt it again, Raquel?"

Andrés' voice is low, intimate, and Martín hates how she is the target of it, and his hand that's holding the gun is shaking.

"Ever since I came in here, all I've heard you say is stupid shit," she says, and that's when it all goes to hell, really.

She lets the whole team know, just what's going on with Andrés, why his hands always shake, what's the deal with the medicine he takes all so discreetly, why he gets such a faraway look in his eyes sometimes.

Martín hates her, hates her, revealing their secrets first to the public, like airing out dirty laundry, and he hates that it feels like a dirty secret, everything she revealed, all those lies tainting the good too, making it seem like Martín being gay, trans, is a crime in itself too--

And now, she comes in here, with yet another secret revealed, just like that, and she is ruining everything, Martín hates her, he wants to draw his gun again, this time don't even hesitate, but he stops short when he sees the look in Andrés' eyes, and it's grief, _it's grief,_ like he is already mourning--

There are no secrets in love, after all. Now, they know everything about each other, nothing left for them, for just themselves, the team knows everything, and it doesn't feel anything like love.

*

Everyone is pointing guns at each other, and Martín hates how used he is getting to drawing his gun and having a stare down. He pulls his gun on Nairobi, his hand steadier than ever but everybody in the room does a double take when he speaks.

"Berlin, lower your gun," he says, not looking away from Nairobi, and he can feel Andrés' gaze trying to burn a hole through the side of his face, but he keeps his eyes on Nairobi, not daring to look away.

Well, it's not like he was going to draw his gun on Andrés, especially when Nairobi had a gun on Andrés, _Martín's Andrés,_ but that doesn't mean he agrees with the man.

So, what if Martín has a soft spot for Helsinki?

He tries to convince himself that he wouldn't let anybody go outside if this was his plan, but he's not so sure about it, he doesn't know what he would do if they were inside the bank and it was Andrés laying on the couch with a blow to the head, eyes unresponsive--

He doesn't have to think about it for long. In the end, Helsinki makes a decision for Oslo, and it's their first loss in the Mint, their first funeral, a spot in the table that will always be empty, a spot in Helsinki's heart that will never fill up again.

Martín just hopes it's the first and the last. He can't handle another funeral, not in the state he is in.

*

And then Sergio disappears, gets caught, and everything's a mess, nothing went according to the plan and Martín hasn't slept in days, his head hurts so much all the time that he feels like maybe he got shot and didn't notice it--

Then, Tokyo goes and plays Russian Roulette with Andrés.

Martín is banging on the door the whole time, screaming at the top of his lungs.

He even gets his gun out at one point, aims it at the door, ready to shoot, only not knowing where Tokyo is standing, where Andrés is, and what if he shoots Andrés?

Nairobi stops him, and Martín is aware he is speaking still, yelling something through the door, but he can't hear himself, he can't even think--

It's too soon. Martín has been counting days, and it's too soon, they have so much time left, and he won't let Tokyo take that away from him, he can't, and every time he thinks about the gun firing, the lucky shot hitting Andrés, the man falling to the floor with the force of it, lifeless and cold, his eyes open, his face pale, Martín feels like he is going to be sick.

Helsinki is dragging him away from the door, when it finally opens, and Martín starts struggling even more, and he's yelling threats now, he is sure, telling Tokyo he is going to kill her, and he will, he will, how dare he even touch a hair on Andrés' head, how dare she point a gun at him, fire, like it's all just a game--

He breaks free, and before anyone can react, his gun is pointed at Tokyo, who looks frozen, before she reacts, pointing her own gun at him.

Martín laughs. "I'm going to fucking kill you," he says, and his voice sounds foreign to him.

"Do it," Tokyo replies, cocking one eyebrow, "you'll go down with me."

Martín walks forward, and Tokyo moves back, until they are inside the bathroom, and Martín can make sure Andrés is okay, and it feels like he hasn't breathed in years when he finally allows himself to inhale.

There is broken glass on the floor, and Andrés' medication, Martín thinks numbly. Andrés is tied to the chair, and now, Martín's vision changes to Andrés getting shot, and slumping in the chair, body lifeless, still, and he thinks how close he came to that, how close he came to losing Andrés, his love, his life--

"Palermo," Andrés says, and Martín realizes only then that his whole body is shaking, with anger and fear, his gun hand so unsteady that it will be a miracle if he manages to hit Tokyo where he intends to.

Tokyo, on the other hand, is holding her gun good and steady, there is only one bullet inside the gun, meant for Andrés, but it will be inside Martín instead, soon--

"Put the gun down," Andrés says, and Martín starts laughing.

"No," he replies, tightening his hold on the gun, "I'm going to kill this bitch even if it means death."

Then, Rio is drawing his gun, and everything happens so fast, the kid pointing the gun at Andrés, and the air goes heavy, Martín's vision goes red, and he is aware of Andrés yelling a warning, recognizing the look in Martín's eyes, understanding what's about to happen, and Helsinki crashes into Martín just as he fires, the gun setting off, the bullet crashing into the ceiling--

The room erupts into chaos, Tokyo falls to the floor, and Rio moves left, like that will help him avoid getting shot, and Andrés is yelling something else, but Martín crashes to the ground with Helsinki's weight on top of him, and he's yelling too, and it feels like when Tokyo yelled at a camera in the corner of the room, writing a love poem to Rio.

This is Martín's version of the same thing. "I'm going to kill all of you," he screams, all of you, any of you who dared to touch him.

*

They tie him up, and then Andrés joins him too, after throwing Tokyo out of the Mint, both of them tied up on chairs, and it's kind of romantic, it's kind of funny, except that it's not, at all.

"They're going to ruin this plan, get us all killed in here," he says, not even angry, just tired.

"No," Andrés says, "I won't let them."

"You're tied to a chair, mi amor," Martín replies with a smile, rolling his eyes.

Andrés looks serious though, gaze heavy. Their eyes meet, and Martín has to suppress a shiver. "I won't let them get you killed," Andrés says, "you are getting out of here alive."

Martín shakes his head, fast. "No," he says. "No. We are getting out of here alive."

And it's a promise. Too bad they can't shake on it.

*

The hostages try to escape again, and it seems like, Andrés and Martín need to take charge again, so they are released, like they were bad dogs being punished. Martín thinks if they didn't need them, the team would leave them chained for the entirety of the heist, so if he is a little more snappy, a little more short with everyone, he blames it on tension and anger because of the power being taken away from him, and not betrayal--

Because you can't feel betrayed if you never trust in the first place, and Martín isn't ready to accept that he trusted these people, still trust them, maybe, not yet, not ever.

*

They choose Andrés, to be their actor, and Martín has seen the man act enough times to know he is the right choice.

During the discussion, there is mentions of Andrés having no feelings and suddenly all the eyes turn to him, like they realized what they said, like they expect him to burst into tears and realize Andrés never actually loved him--

Martín tells himself it's just the atmosphere, it's just the tension, they weren't like this back home (and it was home, wasn't it, for their big, dysfunctional family?) so he doesn't start shooting.

He bites the inside of his cheek, tries not to let anything show on his face.

These people have never seen Andrés get an idea so great that his eyes actually start shining, a billion stars in them, and when he starts explaining, he can never sit still, always uses his hands, sitting down, getting up to pace, stopping his words or talking fast whenever he gets excited--

These people have never seen Andrés dance, feet moving so perfectly along with the rhythm and when he dances, he always looks like an angel sent from heaven--or no, a demon, more like, trying to get people to sin, to get Martín to sin, moving his hips like that--

These people have never seen Andrés after a breakup, silent, and his jaw clenched, drinking wine straight from the bottle, like nothing matters anymore, like nothing will matter ever again--

These people have never held Andrés as the man shook with sobs, tears drying on their shirt, and Andrés mumbling something under his breath, too low for anyone to hear, but Martín always knew him too well to be able to guess--

These people have never seen Andrés laughing so much, a little wine hazy, tears in his eyes shining like stars, and the tension lines in his face all disappearing, leaving only room for joy, and the laughter lines Martín loves to look at so much, face looking so young, so boyish, so full of love--

And these people have never seen Andrés in love, felt it burn their skin, felt it burn through it, touching their soul, these people have never kissed Andrés, never had him look at themselves like the meaning of the universe is hidden in their eyes, never have held Andrés at night, the only time the man will let himself be held, burying their face in his hair, and just inhaling, the scent of home--

These people have never loved Andrés. Of course they think he's heartless.

They don't even know him.

*

Andrés delivers a beautiful speech, of course he does.

"The police lie," Andrés says, and then takes a deep breath, trying to steady himself, and Martín is holding his breath too, his lungs on the verge of burning.

"They saw an easy target, a dying man, and his trans, gay partner in crime, and they completely soiled our name, dragged it through the mud, lied to the public just because they knew the public is on our side because what we do is robbery, yes, but it's honest, and we are all proper people, not rapist, women trafficking pedophiles."

Andrés cuts himself off, and Martín feels tears burning in his eyes, he is half aware of the camera turning to him, but he doesn't look away from Andrés, he can't. Andrés is a good actor, yes, but it doesn’t feel completely like he is acting.

His trembling lips curl up into a smile, and Andrés is looking at him, a million feelings in his eyes, and Martín thinks to himself, I love this man, I love him, I love him, I will love him forever--

The camera turns back to Andrés, and soon enough, the man is acting upset, telling them to cut, and as soon as the camera is out Martín walks to Andrés, all but runs, long strides, he can't bear to be away for a second longer, and he doesn't care about anyone else in the room, he even forgets their presence for a second, and it feels like he can finally breathe again, when he pulls Andrés into a hug, so tight that it hurts, tight so it means something.

The team probably thinks he is doing it for the sake of the reporters still in the room, watching them with sharp eyes, but him and Andrés know, this is only for them, they both know, and that's all that matters in the end.

*

Tokyo comes back to the Mint, and Moscow gets shot in the process.

Martín can't quite look at Denver, then, can't quite bear to look at him.

Martín never had a father, it's debatable if his mother ever truly loved him, but he wants to believe that she did, once upon a time, she loved her beautiful, perfect baby girl.

He remembers losing her, twice. Once when he had him completely, once when he didn't even have a piece of her. He remembers looking at strangers for too long, blinking away tears, because of the way they dress, the way they talk, the way they walk, sometimes their faces would be a little too familiar, and Martín would blink, blink, until he stopped seeing his mother, but it never really stopped, every once in a while Martín would stumble, almost fall down, because a stranger on the street looked too much like her, a ghost from his past that he can never forget--

He thinks about Denver, forever being haunted too, and he thinks about Moscow, dying in the Mint, and if anybody deserves it, it isn't him, it isn't that man.

When Moscow saw Manila again, for the first time, he didn't even bat an eye, Martín remembers her telling him, just drew her in a hug, tighter than before, like he was saying something without saying it, and _he said it so clearly too,_ he remembers Manila saying.

When Moscow learned about Martín the man took it in stride once again, didn't blink, didn't act surprised, angry, shocked, just accepted and moved on, accepted with his whole heart, and Martín remembers Moscow sitting by his side one night, when the night was lazy with blinking stars and a half moon clear in the dark, and he remembers bumming a cigarette, just smoking in silence, he remembers Moscow calling him son, and nobody, nobody had called him _son_ before--

He makes a promise to himself that he won't let Moscow die, not Moscow, not now, not ever, he is not losing anyone else in the Mint, they are all going to walk out of here, and if Moscow can't walk, then Martín will carry him on his back.

*

It's an empty promise he has made to himself, of course.

He thinks about Andrés, how he won't be able to save him either, and he thinks about holding Moscow's hand as the man drifted off to a sleep that would last forever, Denver, Tokyo by his side, and he thinks it will be enough if he gets that with Andrés too, if he can hold Andrés' hand as the man drifts away--

But it won't be enough. It should be. It could never be enough.

*

When the time to get out of the Mint arrives, Martín can almost taste it in the air.

They have lost too much, too fast, and Martín can taste it in the air, the grief, the mourning heavy and weighting their shoulders down, and the promise of more, more loss, more death, and all he does is make empty promises these days, but he tells himself he is not letting anybody else die, he can't--

Please, he thinks, just let us get out of here, _please,_ we have already lost more than enough.

But it never is enough, when it comes to death.

Death takes and it takes, and it takes, and it takes, and Martín hopes if it has to be that way maybe next time it can be him at least.

*

They are racing against time, the police are hot on their heels, and Andrés won't move.

Martín knows what's about to happen immediately, and he moves, behind Andrés, away from the door, his hand on his gun.

"You and I both agreed I am sexist, right?" Andrés says, and he is smirking, "well it's women and queers first."

"Helsinki, grab him, we don't have time for this," Martín says, and when there's no movement, "come on! That's a fucking order!"

But Andrés is too quick, draws his gun and points it at Helsinki, stopping the man in his tracks.

"Helsinki, take Nairobi and leave," Berlin says, too calm.

Martín growls. "You are not staying here--"

"Somebody has to hold the trench!" Andrés yells, and Martín flinches, shaking his head.

"No," he protests, "Andrés--"

But Andrés doesn't listen, just moves his gun to Nairobi, "Helsinki, grab Palermo, and get out of here," he orders, and his hand is shaking, ever so slightly, while Martín is trembling like a leaf.

"You're not going to shoot me," Nairobi says, jutting her chin out.

Andrés chuckles. "I'm not going to kill you, of course not. But I can injure you, so you can't resist being dragged away. We already have a doctor waiting back at the hangar."

Martín pulls at his hair, feeling his world narrow down, his vision black at the edges and he can't think, he can't think--

"We don't have time for this!" He yells, he screams, every second, they are losing their chance to leave, he is losing his future with Andrés.

"Exactly," Andrés says, "Helsinki, quick, grab him."

And Helsinki moves.

Martín has his gun out before he can even think and his vision is blurry, his hand shaky, but he is sure he can shoot if it comes down to it.

There is silence for a second, and then Andrés full on laughs, a full body laugh, hollow, empty, and echoing off the barren walls.

"He's not going to shoot you, Helsinki," Andrés says, and Martín realizes he is right.

He is not going to shoot Helsinki; he is definitely not going to shoot Andrés--

And in a moment of clarity, or maybe insanity, or maybe there is no difference at this point, he realizes what he must do.

He raises the gun, presses it right below his chin, facing his brain, and Martín has been in this position before, he knows where to shoot, he knows how to blow his brains out and not just shoot off his face--

The room freezes, the air dropping several degrees. Martín smiles. It seems, after all this time, he can still surprise Andrés, judging by the look on the man's face.

"Helsinki, take Nairobi and leave, right now," he says, and then turns to Andrés, his smile growing, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes, it feels to much like melted plastic on his face, even hurts a little bit, "somebody has to hold the trench, then let it be us, mi amor, two of us against the world, just like it always has been."

Then, nobody says a word, as Helsinki drags away Nairobi, who is crying, silent, defeated, a faraway look in her eyes. Martín has never seen her defeated before. He realizes he never will again.

It doesn't bother him as much as he thought it would. After all, there is no better death than dying by his lover’s side.

"Martín," Andrés starts, and Martín lowers the gun, slowly.

"I told you," he says, stepping forward, shortening the distance between them, "I told you. I will be by your side, Andrés, so, if you're doing this, we are doing it together."

"You're not going to change my mind," Andrés says, voice thick and heavy, and Martín chuckles.

When has he ever changed Andrés' mind? He wouldn't even dream of it.

"And you're not going to change mine," he replies, and there is so little distance between them now, both physically and emotionally, Martín feels his heartbeat, and it feels like Andrés' is beating right beside his own. "Till death do us apart, right?"

And he grabs Andrés by the neck and pulls him into a kiss.

It's forceful and soft all at once. They are kissing like they will never kiss again, like it's the end of the world, and it is, isn't? It's the end of the world as they know it.

But there is also longing, and love stored in the kiss, longing, like they are not chest to chest, like their hands aren't in each other's hair, like they don't have each other completely yet. And love, as would be obvious, because Martín has never loved anyone as much and as intensely as he loves Andrés.

When they pull back from the kiss to breathe, their foreheads together, Martín realizes Andrés is crying. He makes some kind of wounded noise, maybe a soft gasp, one of his hands buried in Andrés' hair moving to wipe the tears away, but it backfires, Andrés leans into to touch, tears streaming faster, but still silent.

"It's okay, shh," Martín is whispering, and there is nobody around to hear them anyway, these words are just for them. "Calm down. It will be okay."

"I can't let you die," Andrés says through his tears and Martín feels his heart break for him.

"And I can't let you die alone," Martín replies, and when he pulls back, he feels a sudden energy fill him to the brim, because he is going to die inside the Mint, but he will do it protecting his friends, he will do it with Andrés by his side, he will be keeping his promise.

"So, are we doing this or what?" He asks, jutting his chin towards the machine gun all set and ready for them.

Andrés looks at him, then at the machine gun, then at the door right beside them.

Then, in a split second, the man grabs his wrist, so tight that it hurts for a second, it surprises Martín with its force, and Andrés just _looks_ at him, face all soft and shiny with tears.

They start running, towards the tunnel.

**Author's Note:**

> hope u somehow enjoyed this mess?? listen i wrote most of this (7k) when i was super sleep deprived dont judge me
> 
> and if some things dont make sense after the first fic, its bc i cant bear to read that fic ever again its so ugly so like i dont even remember what happened yknow?? once again, dont judge me
> 
> also feel free to come find me at [twitter](https://twitter.com/TRANSPALERMO)


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